


In which Bucky loses his careful poise, and lets the metal arm do what it will

by aingeal



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Returns, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Choking, Gentle Sex, M/M, Metal Arm Fetish, Multiple Orgasms, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aingeal/pseuds/aingeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unashamed metal arm porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Bucky loses his careful poise, and lets the metal arm do what it will

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this beautiful fan art.](http://ansdjqkf.tumblr.com/post/82244903688/steve-i-dont-want-to-hurt-you-its-all-right)

Since Bucky came back to himself and found that metal arm attached to him, he’s been so careful.

He came back to himself with the sense of the arm innate. He could not recall what was there before it or how it got there. All he knew was what it was for. The arm held instinctive purpose; it had been used again and again to maim and to kill and that’s what it wanted to do. The fingers were for building the intricacy of wires that formed the tell-tale heart of a bomb, for striking so, so and so at pressure points to fell the largest target, for stripping and building a rifle in seconds. The fingers wanted what they knew: to play easily around rolling spherical grenades, or dexterously slip conical oily bullets into a firing chamber, knock a hammer, and cock round a hairline trigger. The hand had crushed many a trachea and searched for fatal weakness in everything else it touched. The hand felt lost, deprived of its rightful home: folded around the perfect balance of the handle of a dagger. The arm made of metal knew how to kill and it wanted to kill and kill and kill and kill.

When he came back to himself he knew the arm, and he feared it like the deadly weapon that it made him. Each time he let a plate of it recalibrate he buckled under memories of a life that had been lost to that same motion. Moving the arm, knowing what it wanted, made it feel like death and chaos were writhing off of him like his own natural-borne children. It almost broke his mind a second time, remembering.

He had to teach the fingers other movements, learn to use the arm in other ways. He had to.

He practiced with it. He worked himself with care and patience, with precision, building muscles in his mind to move the fingers in new ways. Like any muscle they took much repetition and frustration and pain to build, but they grew. He learned. He had no guide but he taught himself. It was the only way he could find to keep his mind a fragile whole.

He had to, so he taught himself how, and so now he is careful.

These are some things he can do with his metal arm, now it can be careful, now it’s learned how not to kill:

Hold an egg without crushing it, both cradled in his palm and poised between his fingertips.

Thread a needle. Use it to mend things.

Roll a cigarette from friable loose tobacco and wafer-thin paper, and strike a match to light it.

Pet a cat; scratching around tiny ears and jaw, stroking along a fluid back.

Run his fingers through his hair. Tie his hair behind his head with a thin snap-able elastic band. Braid it.

Squeeze his pimples.

Button a shirt.

Do the dishes without grinding the glass and porcelain into powder.

Plant seeds in soil, nourish them so they germinate, pinch out excess growth, nurture the seedlings in their raw new greenness.

He can even shave himself, choosing not to use a blade in the only ways he ever knew a blade was meant for, finding another way to use it, choosing to keep its danger a potential folded within it and not unleash it.

He’s also learning to play the piano, though that is taking other kinds of patience and muscle memory. When he practices the metal fingers clink, subtly, against the ivory keys. He plays lightly, pianissimo, his fingers ghosting above the instrument, teasing out the ephemeral melodies that he prefers. Music is a space where he can feel truly mended, where the good new tasks that the arm has learnt to do can seem enough, where he can feel the arm and he have truly been _repurposed_.

There’s another place that feels like that. Steve’s body.

He can love Steve’s body with his newly gentle metal hand. He loves to explore it. He traces Steve’s jaw, from its soft dent beneath his ear, to the hard curve of the bone of his chin, to the bob of his adam’s apple- feeling that place’s vulnerability without crushing it even entering his mind- and down to the silken secret hollow above his breastbone. He strokes Steve’s arms with utmost delicacy, can isolate the raised thread of his veins in his wrist against the rest of his skin, and feel the individual hairs on the back of his fingers, and trace the yielding toughness where Steve’s fingernails meet his fingertips. He loves those tiny subtleties. He winds their fingers, flesh and metal, fast together without fear. He knows his hand can follow the many folds of Steve’s abdomen, the ribs tacked firmly with flesh, the valley in between his pecs and each of his chiseled abs, the taut V of his hips, and maybe the cool fingers will tickle them and make Steve squirm, but they will never hurt him.

He can take the hand and use it to gently tug the waistband of Steve’s underwear down, before wrapping the metal fingers around Steve’s cock and moving that softest skin around the hardest part of him. He can give Steve pleasure. The hand that had only slain now knows that sweet, tender task as its dearest own. Who would ever have guessed that the arm could learn how to love?

Sometimes he likes to tease around the base of Steve’s cock and dip below it and play there, probing and stroking, holding Steve’s most fragile organs within their yielding sack, and make Steve sigh and shiver, and not hurt him. All he wants to do is never hurt him.

Even Steve’s tight asshole has felt those metal fingers that are never quite warm, has taken them in and let them expand and stroke, and never known a single second of anything even approaching discomfort from them.

In this new life of gentleness, it is of Steve that he takes most care.

 

*

 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Steve.” Bucky says, backing away. He tucks his left hand, the metal hand, into his right armpit to hold it safe, as if it has a life of its own and needs to be caged. “Don’t you understand?”

“I know what you’re afraid of.” Steve replies. Steve is lounging back against the wall, his head tipped back and a feral glint in his eye. His throat is exposed, as are his arms in the tight white undershirt, and he knows that Bucky is using every inch of his willpower to stay three steps away and not touch him. “I know what you’re afraid of and I’m telling you, it doesn’t scare me.”

Bucky laughs, harshly, and spits: “You don’t fear it because you don’t know it.”

“I don’t know it?” Steve barks, angered and on edge from his frustrated arousal, and before Bucky can do anything about it Steve has him by the shoulder and has twisted him off balance and knocked him onto the bed. Bucky’s metal arm is splayed out in front of him where he tried to break his fall, and his other arm is crushed beneath his body. Steve straddles Bucky from behind, trapping his legs between his own. He leans over his body and places his hand atop Bucky’s metal one, forcing his fingers between Bucky’s, holding the metal hand with an unyielding grip. Bucky is trapped against the mattress, breathless and startled. He twists his face up to Steve’s, eyebrows peaked and lips parted in surprise, and Steve can’t resist, he traps those lips in a harsh kiss and fucks his tongue into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky’s mouth opens wider, welcoming the invasion, and he moans as Steve’s tongue roughly penetrates between his teeth and over his own submissive tongue. Bucky thinks that Steve is going to take him now, like this, folded over and on his front, fast and frantic, but he’s wrong.

Bucky should have guessed what Steve wanted when Steve had tried to place the metal hand around his throat and made Bucky balk and back away. Bucky doesn’t want to admit it but he knows what Steve wants, and he’s terrified, because the arm wants it too, and he has learned to hate and fear anything that the arm wants for its own. He is focusing hard on keeping the metal hand still beneath Steve’s grasp, using every new skill he’s learnt to not give in to the arm’s instincts to fight Steve off and crush him, to flip him in turn and hold him down and fuck him hard. He can’t trust himself, can’t trust the arm has learned enough to let that happen.

Steve breaks the kiss with a bite to Bucky’s lower lip, and closes his free hand around Bucky’s chin, holding his face up at a cruelly twisted angle, close to his own.

“You think I don’t know it, Buck?” he whispers, close and menacing. “You think I don’t know what that hand can do?” Before Bucky can think of a reply, Steve lets him go all of a sudden, pushing him over onto his back so he lies with his arms flung above his head and his legs trailing over the side of the bed. Steve straddles Bucky about the hips and links his hand into Bucky’s metal one again, but instead of pinning him down like that Steve lifts the hand and places it into the neckline of the tank he’s wearing.

“You feel that? You know what it is?” Steve’s forcing the metal fingers over a bump of a scar on his pec, to the left of his armpit. Bucky’s face twists in pain. “Yeah, you know what it is,” Steve continues, ruthlessly, ignoring the flush of anger and hurt on Bucky’s cheeks. “That’s where you stabbed me, Bucky. And here-” he moves Bucky’s hand, makes it go down the front of the tank to his stomach, where a denser knot of scar tissue mars the smoothness of Steve’s skin- “here’s where you shot me.”

“Stop it Steve, please stop it, I can’t—” Bucky pleads.

“I don’t want to stop, Bucky. I’m not going to stop. I want you to remember. I want you to know that I am _not scared of you_. Tell me what happened after you shot me, after you stabbed me.” Bucky starts to protest, tries to pull his hand away, but Steve snarls and holds the hand to his stomach, pressing the fingers harder against the old scar. “Tell me!”

“I, you, you climbed. You climbed up and you finished your mission. Even though you— I—”

“Even though you stabbed me in the shoulder and shot me in the stomach.”

Bucky winces, but he nods. Steve says, “Then what happened. Tell me.”

“The carrier started to go down. You sent it down.” He knows this because Steve has told him what happened up there. “And you saw me, you saw me trapped in the wreckage. You pulled me out. You saved my life.” Bucky’s eyes fill with tears, as always, remembering that. He doesn’t want to say any more. But Steve won’t stand for that.

“That’s not the end, Bucky! Tell me what happened next! I know you remember. Tell me what happened, goddamn you, I want you to tell me.” Steve grabs Bucky’s jaw again with his free hand and assaults him with his eyes, compelling him with all the power of his darkened blue gaze. His other hand is unrelenting on the metal one, holding it crushed against his abdomen. The metal hand does not fight back.

Bucky’s eyes shut against the force of Steve’s glare, and his brows crease into a frown of pain, and he’s having to focus _so hard_ to keep the hand from wrenching itself out of Steve’s grasp and doing something bad, but he continues. “Ok. What happened next is you freed me and I kept trying to fight you. You took your helmet off so I could recognize you. You dropped your shield so you were defenseless. And I-” Bucky pauses. He blinks tears out of his eyes, and he thinks about begging for forgiveness, but he knows that would be wrong. So he continues, bravely, with steel in his voice: “I didn’t stop. I punched you. I knocked you down. I pinned you there at the edge. I kept on punching you. I broke your face.”

Bucky’s eyes have gone wide and unfocussed with pain and regret, looking up and past Steve. Steve doesn’t relent. He finds Bucky’s gaze and he hisses, with a simultaneous squeeze of Bucky’s jaw, “Then what.”

“Then. Then you said it.”

“What did I say.” Steve won’t let Bucky look away. His eyes bore into him. “What did I say, Bucky.”

Bucky’s wide-open eyes swim with tears and when he manages to speak his voice is faint.

“ _To the end of the line_.”

“To the end of the line.” Steve repeats. His voice is softer now, he’s feeling soft with love from the memory of those words, and desperate to not be talking any more, desperate for Bucky’s touch, but he isn’t finished yet. He needs Bucky to understand. He can’t have what he wants from Bucky unless Bucky understands. “Then what.”

“Then you fell.”

“And.”

“And… I jumped after you.”

“And.”

“I pulled you out of the river.”

“You saved my life.”

Bucky only nods.

“So don’t you think,” Steve says musingly, “considering all of that, everything you did to me, that I _know_? That I know what you’re capable of? I trusted you, I _knew_ _you_ , even when you were trying to kill me… I knew you would know me. That you would come back for me- come back to me. You were trying to kill me with that metal arm of yours, but I never doubted for a single second that you loved me. Don’t you think that that means you can trust me to know what it is I’m asking for, now? Don’t you think that means I trust you to use that metal arm on me? The way I want it?”

Steve doesn’t look away from Bucky’s eyes, but his gaze has lost its fearsome edge and turned darker, burning no longer with the flames of rage but with the slow embers of desire. Under the thin shirt he’s moving Bucky’s metal hand, making the metal fingers slide on his stomach. His breath is beginning to get heavy. He loves the feel of the cool plates on his skin. He wants that hand so badly, wants to feel for the first time what it’s truly capable of, without Bucky in his carefulness holding it back.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He lets Steve move his hand. His metal fingers feel Steve’s muscle. He processes Steve’s words. His pulse is rising.

“I want you to remember one more thing.”

Bucky nods. He is still frightened, but Steve’s softening him, and he’s willing to go with him wherever this is leading. Bucky can tell that Steve’s excitement is building from how his stomach, under Bucky’s hand, is inflating faster and shallower with his quickening breaths. Bucky’s own chest is feeling tight, and his cock is stiffening beneath Steve’s thighs even though he thinks he doesn’t want to do this—

Steve takes Bucky’s metal hand out from under the shirt and, holding it firmly, slides it up his flushed chest to the column of his throat. He holds it there, not tightly, but enough to make the metal fingers grip slightly into his flesh. When Bucky takes up the grip of his own accord, tentatively, Steve shudders and slides his hand down over the plates of Bucky’s metal hand to his wrist, and then raises his other hand to wrap around the first, squeezing the unyielding metal with the two of them. He leans his weight into Bucky’s grip on his throat, forcing Bucky to hold him up by the neck.

Bucky’s hand takes the weight, instinctively. The articulated fingers fold around Steve’s throat. The arm knows how to do this. Bucky’s heart stutters and his mind jolts, takes him to a dim memory where his sense of self is patchy but just about enough to string together a coherent recollection: Fighting Steve, among the cars of the highway. Throttling Steve, squeezing his throat just like this. Trying to kill him. But— but not killing him. Letting him go, throwing him instead. The arm was supposed to crush any throat that it touched, but it hadn’t done then, even then when Bucky was not wholly himself and had not learned how not to kill. The arm had still been a weapon, but it had refused to kill Steve and gone against its purpose.

The implication of this strikes Bucky for the first time, hitting him in the heart. He gasps. He doesn’t move the hand from Steve’s throat. He feels the happiness in his heart rush up his metal arm to his hand, almost like real blood is warming it. He trusts the arm to not kill Steve. He didn’t realize, but he’s always trusted that. And Steve has, too. Being careful has been good, but he doesn’t always have to be. Not with Steve. Now Bucky understands.

Steve, swimming in the sensation of his breath being squeezed out of him, is also remembering. He sees in his memory Bucky’s blue eyes above his mask. Those eyes never stopped being Bucky despite the mask that marked him out as the Winter Soldier. They were so blue and so dear, beneath the furious flick of his dark eyebrows. In Steve’s memory that vicious, pale face is clear as Bucky’s real face below him now- he can see the long hair flying around it and the vulnerable red mark on the bridge of his nose at the center of it, where the mask had rubbed it raw. Even then, fighting for his life, with Bucky present only as a glint in the eye of the Winter Soldier and a red mark beneath the Winter Soldier’s mask, even though the metal hand that had never been Bucky’s before had been trying to kill him, even then, Steve’s stomach had been knifed with electric ice at the thrill of Bucky’s touch.

His stomach is thrilling now, with Bucky’s metal hand squeezing his breath out, with his hands on that cold hard wrist, reliving it, making Bucky relive it. It feels so good to have that metal hand on him, hard and brutal. It’s thrilling that Bucky is not pulling away. He knows what Bucky not pulling away means. His heart expands as his stomach explodes into butterflies and his cock swells harder than it feels it’s ever been. He’s getting what he wants. He’s managed to show Bucky that it’s ok for him to give it to him, that he’ll only ever be safe when it comes to Steve.

The hand round his throat isn’t all Steve wants though, so he lets go of Bucky’s wrist and pulls back, and Bucky lets him go, sliding the metal hand down to his chest. Bucky looks at Steve, in a way that makes Steve sure that he finally understands.

Steve bends down and Bucky rises up to meet him and they kiss, and into the kiss Steve whispers, “I never forgot who you are, not even when you had. I’ve always trusted you, Bucky, I’ll always let you have me. I want you to _have_ me. I want you to trust yourself like I trust you. I want you, Bucky. I want all of you. I want _this_.” He clutches Bucky’s metal hand and presses it into his chest.

Bucky doesn’t need persuading any more. His metal hand twitches within Steve’s grip, and his breath is coming ragged. He presses his lips open against Steve’s and groans something into Steve’s mouth which could be _yes_ , or could be _no_ , but it doesn’t matter, because he is going to do it anyway. He wants Steve so much. He’s going to have him. He’s going to let the metal arm go. He can trust it. He can trust himself. He’s not going to be careful.

 

Bucky’s metal hand finds Steve’s throat again, and rubs it roughly before gripping around Steve’s jaw and forcing his mouth open. All of a sudden Steve’s position atop Bucky doesn’t seem powerful or dominant at all. He’s suddenly vulnerable. Bucky’s tipping Steve's head back so he’s coming up off his arms, his spine bending. Bucky is showing him the strength of the metal arm. Steve is panting. Bucky holds Steve up like that, admiring his heaving chest, his exposed throat and the acrid smell of his aroused sweat coming from beneath his arms. Then Bucky, with ease, with a mere flick of his metal wrist, flips Steve onto his back as if he weighed nothing. Steve lands heavily with a grunt of his breath leaving him, and before he can catch it Bucky flips him by the neck again, forcing him onto his front. Steve’s body moves through space like a rag doll under the might of the metal arm. He’s already swooning and making sighing moans from that sensation of helplessness, from Bucky’s power over him, from the hand on his neck.

Then Steve starts to vocalize as the metal fingers grasp the neckline of his undershirt at the back of his neck and rip the shirt clean off him with one tug, just tearing it straight through the seams, exposing all of Steve’s broad back. Bucky tosses the rags of the shirt to one side, before working his flesh hand up and down that golden tanned skin, sweeping Steve’s sensitive sides and narrow waist and making his noises come louder. The metal hand stays on Steve’s nape, pressing his head to the mattress. The metal hand will do no stroking tonight.

Steve works himself onto his knees, ass in the air, urgent. Bucky is equally keen to go fast and with his metal grasp still on Steve’s neck his right hand unfastens Steve’s trousers and pulls them messily to his knees, along with his underwear. Steve’s face is red and crushed from the harsh angle that Bucky’s pressing him into, and he can hardly breathe. His cock is hanging completely hard between his legs. His ass is totally exposed, his hole brazenly right there and ready to be taken. There is no sense of shame or shyness coming from Steve at all. He just dips his waist lower and spreads his knees wider, offering himself.

Bucky takes in all of this, breath ragged, eyes wide above his flushed cheeks. He’s never gone as quickly as this before, hadn’t known how fast their mutual excitement could build. He’s always raised Steve up to this point slowly, kissing leading to stroking leading to a gentle finger coaxing inwards. He’s never bent Steve over and seen him spread and ready in a matter of seconds. He is so aroused by how hot and desperate Steve is for it. He knows Steve’s been hard since even before he had the metal hand around his throat, but he knows that it’s the metal hand that’s making him this frenzied. He knows Steve wants that metal hand more than anything. His head swims, and every plate in the arm ripples like it has desires of its own. Neither of them can wait.

The metal fingers course down the valley of Steve’s spine and come to rest digging into one of his cheeks as Bucky’s right hand scrabbles the lube from the bedside table. Bucky liberally squirts it into Steve’s crack and onto the metal hand, just getting as much onto Steve’s body as possible; this is no time for a delicate application. The feel of the cool slickness is obviously intensely exciting to Steve, who is thrashing his head around now he’s free to move it, and is keening, knowing he hasn’t long to wait but still unable to bear even this slightest pause. Bucky does pause, just for a second though, because he needs to say:

“Steve, I know you want it so much but I need to hear you say it. Tell me what you want.” It’s partly a confirmation of consent, but mostly he just really wants to hear the words coming out of Steve’s mouth.

“Fuck me with your metal hand. Please. Fuck me with it. The metal hand I want the metal hand.” Steve rasps, moving his hips, driven crazy by the punishing claw-like grip of those craved metal fingers on his ass cheek, so close but so far from where he needs them to be.

The metal arm whirs as the plates move so the fingers release Steve’s flesh. The whirring is something Bucky’s always been self-conscious about, knowing how inhuman it sounds, but tonight it’s different. Tonight the whir of the arm doesn’t sound anything but erotic.

Bucky’s metal hand flattens itself on the small of Steve’s back, steadying him, and the flesh hand grasps his hip. Steve groans in anticipation and moves back into Bucky’s hold, and presses his face into the mattress.

The metal index finger courses swiftly down Steve’s crack, sliding in the slippery lube, and when it reaches Steve’s hole it doesn’t stop, it just presses straight in with no hesitation and no anticipatory strokes. It forces itself in against Steve’s tightness in one smooth push, until it’s buried completely in him.

Steve’s mouth opens wide and the sound that comes out of it is indescribable, somewhere between a moan and a shout, loud and harsh and sweet, a sound that makes Bucky’s cock jump and his stomach swoop, and makes the finger thrust inside Steve’s ass.

Steve’s ass is clenched so tight around the finger, the muscles instinctively fighting the swift intrusion, but when it jolts inside him like that they spasm, clenching momentarily tighter before loosening, relaxing, taking it in. The feeling of Steve opening up makes both he and Bucky moan in unison.  

Bucky pulls the finger out and thrusts two in in its place, just as swift, just as merciless.

Steve sees stars. He can feel the harsh grating of the metal plates as the fingers struggle to fit inside him. They flex and wriggle, and then he feels them push apart from each other, scissoring inside him, forcing him further open. There is no way his flesh can resist the inexorable strength of those metal digits. He screams and his entire body twitches as his tight ring of muscles surrenders and flexes open, allowing the violation.

“Yes, Steve, that’s it, take it, take it baby,” Bucky pants. His flesh hand is bruising Steve’s hip from how hard he’s hanging onto him. He’s already dripping with sweat. The metal arm feels like nothing he’s ever known. He always knew it had purpose, known how much it loved to kill and itched for it, but he’d never known it could be _so_ desiring. It is far and away a stronger desire than killing had ever been. The arm feels like it was built and placed on Bucky's body to fuck Steve hard.

He adds a third finger, just as roughly as the first two, and by now Steve is melting, fallen onto his forearms and his face, his knees sliding on the mattress.  He’s incapable of words but his noises make it absolutely clear how willing he is to do as Bucky says, and take it.

He takes it as the three metal fingers move in and out of him, pulling almost all the way out before striking in to fill him again and again. The sensation of being opened up and fucked like that, of the metal fingers rhythmically filling him up, in and out, cause his hips to move in harmony, and before long a rush of blood goes to his chest and head and cock, and he palms himself until he comes in several long spurts onto the mattress and his thighs, issuing a harsh sigh of pleasure as he does so, rocking back onto the metal fingers.

Bucky’s heart nearly stops when he realizes Steve’s touching himself and coming, it happens so suddenly and is so ridiculously hot- the swift hot liquid spasm of pleasure almost tangible to Bucky’s metal fingers inside Steve. Bucky slows his rhythm to let Steve ride out his orgasm. He doesn’t stop, though. He knows what the supersoldier serum has done to Steve’s refractory period. And he’s far from done with him.

“Oh, Steve, baby you’re so fucking hot… That felt good, didn’t it?”

“Uhhhhhh,” is all Steve’s capable of replying, but he answers more clearly with his body, moving his ass back, inviting more. Bucky gives him more. He thrusts into him hard and crooks the three metal fingers so that they’re not merely sliding in and out of Steve but roughly fingering him, pleasuring all of him. Steve’s head tips back on his neck and he screams from the intensity of Bucky’s fingers twisting and writhing in and out of him. He’s never felt so open, never felt pleasure this harsh. The metal fingers are relentless, finding a rapid rhythm and maintaining it; they would never tire as those of a human hand would. The arm whirs loudly as the fingers pump inside Steve, striking against his prostate and seeming to force him even wider open.

Their cries, gone far beyond moans, fill the air, mingling with the whir of the arm and the clunk of the bedframe striking the wall.

Steve’s close to the edge again, Bucky can tell from the sweat that sheens on his shoulder-blades and dampens his hairline, and from the peaked silent scream twisting his brows and wide open mouth. Bucky grunts at the sight of Steve’s overwhelming pleasure painted so clearly on his face, and folds his body over him, grinding his hips up on Steve while the metal arm pumps like the machine it truthfully is, almost out of Bucky’s control. It would be almost frightening if it wasn’t clear how capable Steve is at taking it- more than capable: _talented_.

He can take more. Bucky slows the hand’s rhythm and manages to pull it out- it takes the arm a few seconds to respond to the command from his brain- and bites Steve's shoulder as he re-enters with all four of his fingers, holding them close together as they force their entrance, before widening them to fill Steve completely.

Steve screams louder than ever and thrashes his head. His body is a white phosphorescent flame. He feels like the metal arm is going to devour all of him. He feels like it is in him up to the elbow. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, to be completely claimed by Bucky like this, to be entrusted to take in his arm, to know Bucky trusts all of himself with him.

The arm can’t go as fast with four of its fingers stretching Steve to his limits, but it doesn’t need to. Just the fullness of it and every slight movement of it, stretching and rubbing everywhere, is driving Steve to the brink.

“You’re going to come for me now Stevie,” Bucky hisses into Steve’s neck, close to his ear. The sweet nickname from the past slips out without Bucky even noticing, but Steve picks up on it and it tilts him a degree closer to coming undone, makes him shudder a moan out among his full-throated cries. “You’re going to come just from this, just from my hand inside you. God you feel so good to fuck like this Stevie, I want to see you come from it, I want you to come from my metal hand…”

Steve’s blood is pounding in his ears and his heart is about to burst through his ribcage. Bucky’s words breathe rushingly into his ear and while he is barely capable of understanding them in the pleasure that’s overwhelming his entire body and mind, they spark straight down his spine and make him even more aware of the fact that it’s Bucky’s metal hand inside him, fully inside him, filling him, taking him, possessing him—

Steve comes. He comes so hard. His face splits open and he screams gutturally as harsh spasms radiate out from his ass to quake his entire body. The shocks shudder through him as his cock, untouched, spurts out multiple long streams all over the bed. Bucky’s body is fully covering him, holding him, supporting him as the spasms shudder on and on, his ass clenching and releasing erratically around the metal hand. Bucky gently pulsates the hand, helping Steve ride through the orgasm that has become painfully intense. 

Steve’s mashed into the mattress with tears on his cheeks. By the time he comes down fully Bucky is beside him, stroking his hair. He slides the fingers out of Steve carefully, but not carefully enough, for the sudden emptiness makes Steve whimper and his body twitch unpleasantly. Bucky slips two of his flesh fingers back inside Steve’s blown-open hole, making Steve sigh from their warmth and soft humanness. He needs that now.

The metal hand wipes itself on the sheets before finding the nape of Steve’s neck. It settles there, and now it strokes. It strokes Steve so gently, with such sweetness. So carefully. It strokes him to sleep. It can do that. Its purpose is clear now. It's not just to be gentle; it's to give Steve everything he needs, sweet and harsh and anything in between. The metal arm is there to give Steve everything.

 

 


End file.
